Junkie Dilemma: Number 22
by Ziggy Sane
Summary: Snippet - A tense encounter between Renton and Begbie.


Junkie Dilemma: Number 22  
  
Summary: Dangerous encounter between Renton and Begbie.  
  
Author: Ziggy Sane  
  
Disclaimer: All characters included are the highly revered property of Irvine Welsh.  
  
  
  
"Fuck's sake," he moaned, knowing it would do him no good, "Fuck's sake. Please calm down. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it." Renton shrugged helplessly, cowering beneath his psychotic mate, praying that Tommy, Sick Boy, or even Spud might be brave enough to at least keep the radge from killing him.  
  
But, no.  
  
Spud was pressed up against the far wall, eyes wide with shock. The suddenness of the attack had surprised them all. Sick boy – the bastard (though Renton could hardly blame him) – was slowly inching his way toward the door. He had no reason to stay; he had his share of the poppy. The cunt was probably wanted for more crimes than any of them could count – why stick around to earn the hardly respectable position of Witness to a man's grisly death?  
  
Renton let his disappointment at the abandonment bleed into his eyes, hoping that Simon might take notice and have a change of heart. But his friend ignored him, determinedly locking his darting, shadowed gaze onto the door. Anger sparked in Renton's chest at that, and when the white headed young man finally risked a quick glance in his direction, he winced visibly.  
  
Simon hastily looked away and the heated rage Renton felt melted away as he was left with nothing more to turn his attention to than the infamous Francis Begbie. The man towered over him, brutal pocketknife in an astonishingly steady grip. The rest of his compact body quivered in fury, the sinews in his neck straining against reddened flesh.  
  
Here was another gadge to whom friendship meant nothing.  
  
"Frank," a soft voice said, breaking the tense spell of silence that had blanketed the tiny room, "Franco – calm down. You know that wasn't Rents talking. It's that shit in his blood."  
  
Tommy!  
  
Renton thought he might give that cunt a kiss when this all blew over. Fucking Tommy! Finally, a friend in this despicable clan.  
  
"He's as high as a fucking kite, Franco. Leave him be. I know you'll be wanting to finish counting out your share of the goods."  
  
Renton wondered how Tommy could sound so genial while at the same time so thoroughly disgusted.  
  
"Eh…Right." Begbie shifted his weight a little, easing up but still glaring down at Renton dangerously. He snorted. "Fucking junkie cunt."  
  
Renton remained silent. Begbie was testing him, and he knew this. Begbie flipped the blade of his knife inwards and tucked it into his back pocket. "Don't you open your fucking mouth again. Got it?"  
  
Renton nodded his head meekly, avoiding eye contact at all costs, latching his gaze onto the disgusting blue carpet beneath him – it smelled like piss, he noted.  
  
"Fucking piece of shit," Begbie muttered before turning away, "Fucking junkie shit." Satisfied with how the situation had turned out, he sidled back to the rickety wooden table, nearing collapse under the weight of their winnings. "All right, then." He rubbed his hands together briskly. "Let's get back to fucking business!" The ease with which he switched from psycho with a knife to friendly companion sickened Renton, who still sat huddled on the floor. Tommy helped him up.  
  
"Watch yourself, Mark," he warned quietly.  
  
Shakily, Renton nodded his head, wiping sweaty palms on his corduroys.  
  
And then they were gathered once more around the table, even Sick Boy, who carefully watched each transaction to make sure he was not cheated out of anything. Renton did not count his money when the wad of notes was pushed before him; he simply stuffed it into his pockets and stood, his face a mask of blank numbness.  
  
"I'm off." His voice was admirably calm, considering.  
  
Begbie glanced up, mild surprise written into his sharp features. "But we're getting drinks." It was a statement that demanded a reply.  
  
Renton swallowed hard and hid trembling hands in his pockets, aching for his normal, unflappable demeanor to return to him. Only this stupid cunt could shake him up this badly. "Not me," he returned with forced lightness, cringing at the distinctive wobble in his words. "I've got some, uh – things – to do." He deliberately ignored Spud's pleading soft brown eyes.  
  
Fuck! He couldn't stay here. Fucking Christ, no. He couldn't handle Beggars after what had just happened. It pained him that the incident would soon be transformed into a joyful romp of a tale by the next day, told and retold and laughed at by all of them, serving only to further cement Begbie's image as a man who got what he wanted, did as he pleased. A man's man. Someone to be looked upon with fondness, with respect.  
  
A fucking psychotic punter who should be put away.  
  
Or put down.  
  
Whatever.  
  
Renton wanted nothing more than to scream those very words into that twitchy, weasel like face. But Tommy had already saved him once that day, and that was more than enough, apparently, seeing how fragile the friendship between the five of them had become.  
  
Begbie shook his head. "Fucking junkie." But he refocused his attention on the pile of notes in front of him. That was his consent. "Fuck off, then."  
  
Quickly, Renton scurried out of the apartment, shorn head tucked down to his collarbone against the wind, and wandered aimlessly down the road until he found a bus stop. He fell into the hard wooden bench there and let his head roll back, stretching skinny legs out in front of him. Staring grimly up at the gray sky, he made a hasty plan of action.  
  
Take the 63 to Kriston and Broshaugh and catch the 14 to Swanney's. He numbly passed a bony hand over his face, long fingers pausing to rub at his eyes, and shivered lightly in the chilly wind.  
  
Christ, he needed a hit. 


End file.
